


Throw Away These Broken Strings - Johnlock Fanfic

by Amytron30



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Best Friends, Control, Crimes & Criminals, Developing Relationship, Drug Use, Feelings, Fluff, Love, M/M, Music, Sherlock's Violin
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-11
Updated: 2020-11-20
Packaged: 2021-03-10 04:34:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,154
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27508432
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Amytron30/pseuds/Amytron30
Summary: Sherlock and John have known each other for about 2 years now.  John recently suffered a divorce and is moving back in with Sherlock, who is currently in the middle of a particularly tough case.  It seems like things are set to go back to how they were in the beginning...or are they?
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes & John Watson, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 2
Kudos: 8





	1. What Brought Us Here?

**Author's Note:**

> Hello all! This started as a oneshot on Wattpad, but I decided to make it a whole story (I just couldn't help myself) and I wanted to share it on this platform as well.
> 
> Typical warnings... There will be some cussing, maybe some trigger topics, and mentionings of drug use (because, well, ya know...). I will try to provide warnings for major triggers, if needed, but I don't really see much of that happening.
> 
> Also, I am American... I will do my best to make sure that I am using the correct terms for everything, since this is based off of the British TV series, but please forgive me if I don't catch something. If I make such a mistake, please let me know and I can definitely change it! Just, please, don't be an ass about it, okay? We don't need that negativity here. =)
> 
> Now, even though this is based off of the British TV series, it won't really follow the actual story of the series. So, just know that I may pull things from the show, but a lot of things will be vastly different.

Sherlock had his eyes on his brother, Mycroft, but he wasn't _really_ looking at him. No, the consulting detective was looking, staring, into a void of nothingness as thoughts, which were visibly projected by his mind, barreled from one side of his brain to the other, like trains, all zig-zagging and crossing each other's path in a chaotic pattern that was so wonderfully choreographed that they never came crashing together. His brain was a well-oiled machine that could abash all of the other sad, ordinary brains of the world, except for that of his brother, of course; his brother never passed up the chance to remind Sherlock the rankings of their intelligence - Sherlock, ever since they were very young, was the slow one. 

This; however, did not deter Sherlock in the slightest. Sherlock spent the majority of this life attempting to keep up with his older brother, which he did without an extraordinary amount of effort. However, there was one thing, one major distinction, between the bothers that seemingly always put Sherlock at a loss when it came to competing with his brother. Feelings. Confounded things they were, always interfering or corrupting intelligent thought. 

Sherlock often found himself asking why Mycroft was born free of the shackles of feelings, while he was unfairly cursed with them. It was almost as if Mycroft had no heart at all. Of course, that wasn't necessarily true. As unfair as it was, Sherlock was emotional as a child and he worked hard throughout his growing years to cut out that part of himself; cut it out and finally be free of it. He did his best, but, in all reality, he was never successful with cutting it out. He was; however, able to bury it deep within his mind palace. So, while it was still there - lurking, it hardly had any influence over him anymore - according to Sherlock. 

There was; however, one thing he didn't anticipate when he gained emancipation from his feelings. He often times found himself horribly bored. He was of high intelligence and; therefore, did not have anyone around him that could stimulate him, cognitively (besides his brother, but hanging out with his brother was the last thing Sherlock wanted to do). He had rid himself of feelings, so he was unable to connect with others on an emotional level, which in turn meant he couldn't build proper relationships with them. As a result, he spent a lot of time, alone, soaking up as much knowledge as he could, but he learned with such ease and retained limitless amounts of information - thanks to his mind palace - that even this was not enough after a while.

Boredom. Believe it or not, there are things worse than death and, for Sherlock, boredom was one of them. There were a few times he felt he would slip into madness because of how bored he was. Eventually, due to the unsettling boredom and loneliness, he would never admit it though, Sherlock found himself in a relationship of sorts, one that could easily give way into a path of destruction, a relationship with drugs.

Too many times, Mycroft found his little brother strung out and so utterly undone. The first time, there were many times, Sherlock landed himself in the hospital after a horrendous bender, Mycroft vowed to help his brother through it. Honestly, Mycroft felt a bit responsible for the sad predicament of his little brother. He felt that he had given Sherlock so much grief about his feelings, that it drove him - an emotional boy - to be ashamed of his feelings, separate himself from them, and now find other ways to cope. 

Mycroft, of course, knew that his brother loved puzzles and puzzles kept Sherlock from getting bored, so that was when he had the idea of getting Sherlock involved with solving the unsolvable crimes that plagued England. Mycroft arranged for Scotland Yard to reach out to Sherlock for help on a case and it worked splendidly. Ever since the first case, Sherlock was hooked and, eventually, he became the consulting detective that he was today, a job he created himself. Of course he had to create the job for himself. Sherlock wasn't ordinary, so why should he be stuck with an ordinary job that just anyone else could have? No, that would not do, not for Sherlock Holmes.

As Sherlock sat there, as Mycroft blabbed on about something, the detective looked at each train of thought, that passed behind his ever-observant eyes. Each one held important details, evidence, and all else that Sherlock felt was relevant and he tried to bring them all together to a conclusion. Like a puzzle - oh, he loved puzzles - he tried to piece them together, but it was becoming infuriatingly obvious that this puzzle refused to be put together, it refused to give way to an answer. These thoughts, these aggravatingly uncooperative thoughts, were in regards to his current case, a case he had been struggling with for months now, a case that had come to frustrating standstill. Sherlock was stumped and he didn't, well, he simply didn't know. Not knowing, that was always the worst of it. Sherlock _hated_ not knowing. _He has to know._ That's how he had always been.

Then, a particular train of thought caught his attention and everything else stopped. All of the other thoughts dissolved and disappeared into that void of nothingness. He followed that one train of thought with his eyes and, there, he felt it. That feeling of knowing. He wasn't quite there yet, but he was close. He kept following the train as it went round and round in his head; there was an urge to reach out and grab it, but he dared not stop it now. No, he had to wait and see where it took him. He squinted his eyes, in hard concentration, focusing all of himself on the train and then...

"Sherlock? Sherlock, are you even listening to me?" Mycroft's toneless voice broke through, causing Sherlock's train of thought to explode upon itself.

Sherlock shook his head lightly, regaining the sense of his surroundings once more. He first took notice of the fact that his arm actually was extended out in front of him, his fingers ghosting against each other as if ready to pinch something out of the air. His eyes stared at his hand for a few seconds before they glared over at Mycroft, who was shaking his head slightly. 

Mycroft started on again, beginning to condescend Sherlock in some way, when Sherlock growled in frustration while simultaneously smacking his hands against the armrests of the chair he sat in, releasing into the air a loud smack of skin against leather, "I almost had it!" The detective heaved himself up into a standing position, huffing as he did, wanting to make completely sure that Mycroft knew he was upset, "For someone who maintains that his intelligence far exceeds that of my own, you sure don't know when to shut up. If you were smart enough to figure that out, I would have a lead by now! Thank you, big brother, for your help," sarcasm dripped from his words.

A condescending smirk played across Mycroft's face as he stood up from his chair, keeping his eyes leveled with that of his brother's, "Oh, brother mine, don't blame me for your short comings. You were the one that came to speak with me, remember?"

Sherlock scanned his brother's form with his ever-perceptive eyes. The skillful detective noticed that the jacket that Mycroft wore hung a little differently than it had just a couple days ago, when Sherlock had seen him last. The jacket was... bigger. While his brother was self-conscious about his weight; to which he made a considerable amount of effort to keep it in check, there was certainly no way he would have lost that much weight in a matter of days. No. It was much more probable that he was gaining weight; therefore, he had to buy a bigger jacket so that it would fit more comfortably. 

In sight of this deduction, Sherlock was able to switch his frustration to amusement, but he carefully held his facial features in place, not wanting to let his brother see the amusement behind his eyes. Ever tempted to say something in that moment, the younger brother convinced himself to save the ammunition for a later time when he really wanted to cut through his big brother's smugness.

"I came here to see if you knew anything about Cassius Alloway. You basically are the British government, so you should have something on him."

Mycroft sighed, annoyed at the fact that he had to answer his brother's inquiry a second time, "And I told you, I don't recall such a name."

Before Sherlock could voice his increasing disappointment with his brother, he felt a buzzing in his pant pocket - quite a distracting sensation. He hastily dove his hand down to fish the phone out of his pocket and bring it up to his eyes, hoping it was Lestrade with something, anything, that could help drive this case forward. Sherlock looked at his phone; he had received a text, but it wasn't from Lestrade. The detective quickly read the text and, feeling no need to reply, stuffed the phone back into his pocket.

Mycroft peered over at his little brother, "Dr. Watson, I presume. You did say he was moving back into the flat, didn't you? My, my... How quickly that relationship crumbled," he paused as if to let Sherlock say something, but the detective stayed silent, "Pleasant reminder that I am quite content with being free of such burdens."

Sherlock nodded once as he slipped his arms, one after the other, into his coat, "As am I."

"You say that, but we both know that isn't quite true. Sherlock - the sentimental."

Sherlock held back a grimace - he hated it when his brother accused him of being sentimental (because he most certainly was not!), but he couldn't let Mycroft see how much it bothered him. 

Choosing not to dignify Mycroft's statement with a response, Sherlock glided towards the room's exit, only to come to an abrupt stop under the door frame, "Do let me know if you find anything in regards to Mr. Alloway," and he slipped out of the door before Mycroft could say another word.

Mycroft sat back down in his seat and reopened a file, that he had been looking through before Sherlock came bursting into his office, as he mumbled something to himself about his little brother. 

A few seconds after Mycroft thought he was once again alone, Sherlock stuck his head back into the room like a Jack-in-the-box, springing out from his confinement, "You're gaining weight, brother dear," and he retreated before Mycroft's angry words could touch him.


	2. Who Said You Were Missed?

Sherlock arrived at the flat before John did, exactly as planned. For once, it was immensely helpful that John had moved clear across the City of London when he married Liddy six months ago.

When he entered the sitting room of the flat, he could hear Mrs. Hudson scurrying about in John's room upstairs. He had texted his landlady directly after he left his brother's office, asking her to begin cleaning up the room since John was on his way.

After John left, it didn't take long for his old room to acquire many miscellaneous things. Sherlock mainly used it to house items that he used to carry out his experiments. He would conduct his experiments in the kitchen and, once done with them, he would just throw the no-longer-needed items into the unused room, soon turning it into that of a hoarder's room.

Sherlock made his way to John's room, sticking only his head in and locating the busy lady, "How goes it, Mrs. Hudson?" 

Mrs. Hudson, who was bent down picking something up from the ground, looked up to meet the detective's eyes and gave him face of motherly frustration, "Oh, Sherlock, look at this room, the state of it! Why are you just cleaning up now? You knew for a week John was moving back in."

Sherlock ignored the grievances coming from his landlady and went back downstairs into the sitting room which really wasn't in a great state if its own, but it was certainly better than that of John's room. The untidy detective started wandering around the room, aimlessly, picking up this and that, pushing stuff over, kicking a few insignificant things under the couch, and all else he could do to somewhat tidy up the sitting room. Though he was partly successful, having an exceptionally tidy sitting room was not exactly his end goal. No, rather, he was making room, an empty space, for something. 

After he felt that he had done enough to do the job, he made his way back into John's room and began moving and tossing things aside, aiming to get at a specific item that was buried under the mess. Mrs. Hudson peeked over at what Sherlock was doing and, unaware of his motivations, brattled on about how he was only making a bigger mess, negating all of her hard work thus far.

After a couple of minutes, Sherlock finally unburied the item he had been looking for. It was a decently sized item, so it would be ideal for two people to carry it, but there was only him and Mrs. Hudson, so he didn't bother asking for assistance. He would just move it himself. He took hold of one side of the item and, with all of his strength, pulled up so that the side he was holding onto hovered a few inches above the floor. Then he made careful backward steps, leading the item out of John's room and towards the sitting room, as the untouched side of the item scrapped across the flooring.

**Bam!**

**Bam!**

**Bam!**

The item smacked against each step as Sherlock drug it down the stairs, causing Mrs. Hudson to abandon her task of cleaning; she stood at the top of the stairs with her hands on his hips, "Oh, Sherlock, my floors!"

"Shut up, Mrs. Hudson!" Sherlock's harsh words were misplaced - heaving this heavy item down the stairs was taking quite a physical toll on the detective, who hadn't recently eaten anything. 

Once the detective guided the item to its destination in the sitting room, he let it slip from his grasp, causing it to hit the floor with a hard thud, and took a step back. Sherlock circled the item as his eyes scanned it and the surrounding area. As he did this, there were a couple of times that he leaned in toward the item, shoving it a few inches this way or an inch that way, fussing over it like a mother fusses over her child's appearance on school picture day, all in hopes to get the item back into its required spot. Once he felt it was perfect, he took several steps to his chair and lowered himself into it. In his seat, he straightened his posture, crossed one leg over the other, and placed both arms flush against the armrests of the chair. From here, he looked directly at the item that stood just 5 feet in front of him. 

_There. Perfect._

A corner of Sherlock's lips curved into a small smile as his hippocampus lit up and began flashing memories in his brain like an old slideshow projector - he closed his eyes and enjoyed them for a few seconds. Many times Sherlock sat _here_ , he rubbed the pad of his thumb against the cool, faux leather of one of the armrests of his chair, and John sat _there._

_John's chair._

Sherlock's eyes shot open at the sudden sound of a door closing and he listened. After a brief silence, he heard footsteps trudging up the stairs to the flat and, in that moment, he noticed debris on the seat cushion of John's chair ( _how dare it settle itself there!_ ). So, in a fluid motion he leaned forward, kneeling down onto the floor on one knee, so he could reach a hand out and swipe the rubbish off the cushion and onto the ground.

Only seconds before the door opened, did Sherlock take his place back in his seat and return to his original position, except this time he propped his elbows on the armrests, steepling his fingers under his chin, instead of laying his arms down on them. He faced the direction of John's chair, but his eyes flicked over to the door. First, he heard a click, followed by the twinging sound of an apparatus twisting - the door knob. 

As insignificant as the noise was, Sherlock could feel his body respond to it. He could feel his brain send an electric signal to his adrenal glands, commanding that adrenaline, epinephrine, norepinephrine, and dopamine be released into his system - and the glands did just that. The pressure if his blood rose as it traveled through his cardiovascular system, warming his body as it did, and delivered the hormones to his heart in record time, causing his heart to flutter. To flutter? Why? How odd. How...interesting. 

Sherlock quickly pulled a file from his mind palace and remembered that the purpose of dopamine is to help a person give the focused attention, craving, euphoria, energy and/or motivation that they need for specific situations. Yes... interesting.

Sherlock carried out all of this thinking during the few second it took for the door to open completely, revealing Dr. John Watson, who was holding a couple of big bags. Sherlock felt his heart flutter again when he actually laid eyes on him - John, his best friend. Surely he was just excited because it had been a while since they had seen each other. Still, he didn't expect to _feel_ like this. Damn those feelings. Damn being sentimental. No, he isn't.

_I. Am. Not. Sentimental._

"Ah, Sherlock, you're here," John took several steps into the flat, carefully kicked the door closed behind him, and dropped the obviously heavy bags onto the ground, releasing a couple of subsequent thumps into the atmosphere of the room.

Sherlock's extraordinary observation skills automatically switched into overdrive, thanks to the dopamine, as he took in every single detail of the doctor. Usually a very well-kempt man, the detective was surprised to see that John's hair was barely brushed through ( _certainly not styled_ ), his lips were horribly chapped, and the stubble on his chin was untamed and allowed to grow well past the normal time it was usually alotted ( _he usually kept a very clean-shaven face_ ). Sherlock also noticed that the whites of John's eyes were slightly reddened, as if he had been crying, and there were dark bags underneath his eyes. His clothes were "typical John", but his posture was pitiful and checked every box on the "closed body language" list - his eyes never fixated on Sherlock, his shoulders slouched forward, and his arms had automatically assumed a crossed postion atop his chest after he dropped his bags onto the floor. This was definitely not typical of the military man, this was not John. 

Sherlock, so taken aback by John's appearance, didn't respond, so John spoke up again, "You didn't answer my text so I wasn't sure if you were busy with a case or not."

Ah, the case... The frustrating case that Sherlock was currently on, began about three months ago - three months after John got married and moved out. This was around the time that John made a point to tell Sherlock that Liddy was not very happy with John's divided attention. Sherlock told his friend to tell his wife that she would just have to deal with it because solving cases were a matter of life and death (but, let's be real, mostly Sherlock's sanity) and, as limited as John's abilities were, John was irreplaceable as the living, breathing sounding board that he was. Sherlock needed him.

_"Excuse me? I'm your sounding board? Oh, hell..."_ A smile almost cracked through Sherlock's mask of neutrality as a memory played through his head.

Long story short, 3 months after he was married, John officially chose Liddy over Sherlock. John would still reach out to Sherlock every now and then - as long as Liddy allowed it - so they could sit and talk like normal people, normal friends ( _oh God, how damn boring is that?_ ), but he always rejected Sherlock's advances to pull him into a case. So, John knew nothing about the current case that Sherlock was on. In fact, John didn't know about a lot of things that had gone on within the recent months.

In a lot of ways, life almost went back to how it was BDW (before Dr. Watson) and, well, Sherlock was fine with it. He spent the majority of his adult life alone and, if Sherlock was to be completely honest, sharing a flat with John was, at many times, tedious and bothersome. So, he was actually very happy to go back to the normal "good ol' days". He was free to walk around the flat unclothed, he could play his violin at all hours of the night - whenever inspiration hit, and he could conduct his experiments without someone constantly griping about it.

_"For God's sake, Sherlock, why is there an eye in my favorite tea cup."_ Another snippet of a memory.

Sherlock had a grand time being on his own once more, even though some people ( _Mycroft... Mrs. Hudson... Graham..._ ) were worried about it sending him into some emotional spiral. But how could it when he, the only (but still greatest) consulting detective, was so cut off from his emotions? How do you have an emotional spiral without emotions?

Another memory invaded his brain. _Darkness. Hot, but also cold. Pain, but also numb. Bright light, so bright he closed his eyes. Mycroft, always so bothersome, "Do you have the list?" Are all brothers so aggravating? Or just mine? "It was for a case, Mycroft. All for a case."_

Really, Sherlock had been fine during John's absence and he was even a little bit sad that his once-again normal days, that he had been enjoying for the last 3 months, were going to be disrupted yet again by Dr. Watson, but - alas - he was prepared to deal with it. He would make that sacrifice ( _oh, what a saint he is, that Sherlock_ ).

John, used to Sherlock's long silences and delayed responses, didn't even try to summon him out from whatever trance he was in and, instead, made his way upstairs toward his old room to look at the state of it - which he could already assume, by the looks of the sitting room, was less than ideal. As soon as he stepped into the room, Mrs. Hudson gave him her signature warm greeting; such a dear woman, John definitely missed her. However, it was hard to return the pleasantry with her after he took a proper look around the room and saw what an absolute mess it was. 

Why didn't Sherlock clear out the room. Really? This was the welcome he was to receive from his best friend? Sure, Sherlock was a bit ignorant when it came to things like feelings and; therefore, often made huge miscalculations when it came to basic human situations and reactions, but - seriously - he should understand that his friend is hurting. John wanted so badly to yell out: _I am hurting!_ He wasn't just coming by for a visit. No, he was moving back in because the woman he fell head over heels for had broken him. Oh, she did a glorious job of pulling him in and opening him up like a fucking birthday present. He had never been so open, so vulnerable, with anyone before. She made him feel loved and accepted in every way and then...

John felt his cold body tickle with the sensation of warmth as his blood pressure shot up. He was upset. He was upset that he was back at the flat. He had anticipated being blissfully married for the rest of his life, but he couldn't even make it near the 1 year mark - barely 6 months and it was already over. Then, as if icing on the cake, his room was piled with junk and it wasn't even his junk! Of course his friend couldn't even be supportive enough to have the room ready for him. Why did his best friend have to be an emotionless robot?!

John marched back downstairs into the sitting room, his sights set on the still-unmoved detective, "Sherlock, you bloody knew for a whole week that I was moving back in. Why is my room still in such a state?!"

"That's what I said," Mrs. Hudson chirped in, loud enough so her sing-songy voice could travel down to John's ears.

Sherlock dropped his hands down to the armrests as his pale eyes met John's, which were glazed over with a sudden ( _completely unnecessary_ ) anger, "I was busy with a case, John, and you know cleaning isn't my forte. That is more of a Mrs. Hudson thing, maybe you should try yelling at her," Sherlock allowed a visible smirk to play across his face.

Mrs. Hudson stomped halfway down the stairs "I'm your landlady, dear, not your housekeeper."

Sherlock flicked his pale eyes towards her, "Please, Mrs. Hudson, John and I are talking," Mrs. Hudson huffed in indignation as Sherlock turned his attention back to John while motioning a hand towards John's chair, "I did put your chair back in its place. Do you see it, John?"

"I see it," John's voice completely lacked all interest as he turned his attention to the chair and ran a hand across his ungroomed jawline, trying to wipe away his building anger.

Sherlock's stare intensified upon the doctor, "Well, sit down, John."

John sighed, "I don't want to sit, Sherlock, I wan--"

"Okay, fine," Sherlock stood up, "Now that you are free to assist me with cases again, I would prefer to update you on the case I'm wor--"

John's hand cut through the air, "Oh, no. No you don't. I'm not in the mood, Sherlock."

"Well, John I--"

John rolled his shoulders, a half-hearted attempt to stave off an outpour of anger, but it didn't work - he had met his boiling point with this whole situation, "Sherlock, I don't want to be _here_!! I don't care about the case!! I want to be - I wish I were..." the heat of John's anger quickly waned and cooled, turning into feelings of despair as he struggled to put his thoughts into words because, quite frankly, he was horrible at things like this and the one time he had finally been able to do that with someone... Well, look at where that got him. He was divorced - once again a failure of love. He was alone and unwanted. Why was he so unlucky?

Sherlock stood there, motionless and mute as his magnificent brain began to lock up, just as a machine does when a wrench is thrown into its inner workings. He hadn't anticipated John reacting like this by him simply bringing up a case. He thought John would practically be chomping at the bit to hear about a new case - it had been a while since they worked one together - and working cases was what they had always done before Liddy, so it was just the thing John needed now that he was no longer with Liddy. He needed normalcy. Sherlock had done his research after he found out John was coming home. 

_Wait, coming home?_

John growled at Sherlock's silence as he pushed past the detective, making his way to his bags, "Oh, hell, forget it. I'm retiring to my room; I don't care that it's a wreck. I'll deal with it."

Sherlock, finally able to break free from his frozen state, raised an eyebrow at John, though he wouldn't be able to see it since he was facing away from Sherlock, "Retire? Already? It isn't even 8 yet."

John huffed as he picked up his bags, throwing them over his shoulders, "I don't care. I have work early tomorrow anyways," he turned and made his way towards the stairs.

Sherlock watched with confusion, while Mrs. Hudson (who was still standing on the stairs) watched with sympathy, as John made his way up the stairs. Mrs. Hudson reached out to pat John on his arm as he passed her, to show him some kind of comfort, but John pulled away. He didn't want to feel her sympathy on his skin, it was embarrassing. All of this was embarrassing.

Once John was in his room, he set the bags down on the floor, stretched himself to his full standing height, and rotated his aching shoulder, causing him to wince in pain. Not only did he foolishly use his bad shoulder to carry the bags (maybe it was a decision he subconsciously made to make himself feel pain - feel something - to keep himself from feeling numb), but it was also the part of his body that retained all of his stress and this week had been overwhelmingly stressful. He let out a sigh and then shuffled over towards the bed so he could start clearing it off. As long as he could clear the bed, then he could go to sleep. He would worry about settling in tomorrow. For now, he needed sleep. 

As he was setting some things on the floor, next to the wall, he heard small steps join him in the room, "Do you need anything, dear?"

He sighed, "No, just sleep. Thank you, Mrs. Hudson."

She took hold of the door frame and leaned against it, "Do let me know if you need something."

John stopped what he was doing and looked around the room, "Seems I wasn't missed much, was I? But, what was I expecting? He is, well, Sherlock," he looked over at Mrs. Hudson with a weak smile. He was really just trying to make a joke, but it only came out sounding rather pathetic.

Mrs. Hudson titled her head and her lips stretched and curled into a ever-knowing smile, "Oh you were, dear. You should have seen him fussing over your chair," then she gently pushed herself off of the doorframe and left the room; John could hear her footsteps retreating downstairs.

When she made it downstairs, Sherlock was laid out on the couch. He had turned his head up towards the stairs when he heard the footsteps traveling down; though he wasn't sure why because he could tell they weren't John's footsteps - the pacing wasn't right. He must have been hoping he was wrong for once... 

Sherlock sighed and looked up at the ceiling, "What was all that about?"

"Sherlock," Mrs. Hudson shook her head as she made her way to the middle of the sitting room, "John was in love and it ended, poor thing."

"But I have a case for us to solve. It should take his mind off all of that nonsense, " he lifted a hand into the air and wagged an annoyed finger in the direction of John's room.

"Oh, Sherlock, it isn't that easy - remember the way you were when John stopped working cases with you? You may not want to admit it, but you know it's hard."

"I don't know what you're talking about," the detective kept his eyes on the ceiling, until he could feel Mrs. Hudson's stare burning into him. He flicked his eyes over to her and she had a smug, 'I don't believe you' look on her face, which he rolled his eyes at, "Isn't it passed your bedtime, Mrs. Hudson? Go on now, I'm busy."

The landlady threw her hands up in surrender as she huffed at Sherlock's stubbornness and made her way out of the flat.

With Mrs. Hudson gone and John in his room, brooding ( _or whatever he was doing_ ), Sherlock decided to go into his mind palace. He had a case to think about... and also something new.


	3. What Happened?

Light bled through the off-white window curtains and into John's room, eventually bringing him back to awareness of the world - which he fought at first. He pulled the duvet over his head to block out the light, but that only made him uncomfortably hot. So, he flung the duvet from his already sweating body and draped his arm over his eyes, but that just made his shoulder ache. He laid his arm back down at his side, keeping his eyes closed, and tried to ignore the light and will himself back to sleep. 

He wanted to go back into his dreams and hide away from the world that was almost unrecognizable now. Sure, it _looked_ the same, but it didn't _feel_ the same. For example, there were many times that John woke up here, in this very flat, in this very bed, and he was content. No, not just content - happy. He was happy with life and, as crazy as it may sound, he was happy to share a flat with the 'high-functioning sociopath' that he called his best friend, but now... That happiness was mutated to a feeling of ' _I shouldn't be here_ '. There was a part of him that was urging to be somewhere else - with Liddy, but he couldn't allow himself to do that. No matter how badly he wanted to forgive her and run back to her, he knew he couldn't disrespect himself like that. 

There was also something else he wanted to hide away from. Last night, when he finally cleared the bed off and was able to lay down, he thought about what Mrs. Hudson said and what he said to Sherlock. He realized what an arsehole he had been. Though it was partially excusable, because he was going through a rough time and his friend did little to make his move back into the flat as effortless as possible, John should not have expressed himself in the way that he did. ' _I don't want to be here_ ' and ' _I don't care about the case_ ' were harsh statements that should not have been made. It didn't take long for the shame to set in, but it wasn't enough to actually motivate him to go downstairs and apologize about it - he just couldn't. His feelings were still raw and all over the place and no doubt Sherlock would - inadvertently - say something that would set him off again. He just decided to get some rest and he would set things right the next day.

Truly, John had missed his friend and the absolute trill of solving cases with him. Without it, John's life was definitely a little more boring than it had been before. Everyday he would wake up, eat breakfast, cycle to work, treat runny noses, cycle home, eat dinner, and then repeat all of that - every day. He loved Liddy and he loved being with her, but that didn't change the fact that he missed the action that came with being Sherlock's flatmate. There was that part of John that was excited by the fact that he would be able to go back to helping Sherlock with cases. Really, there was.

All of these thoughts attacked his brain as it begged for nothing but sleep and peace. As hard as he tried to give his brain what it wanted, he finally had to call off the fight; there was no way he was going back to sleep. He threw both hands onto his face and rubbed gently - starting at the inner corners of his eyes, sweeping underneath them to the outer corners, and then sliding up to his temples. He was simultaneously trying to rub the sleepiness from his eyes and smooth out the dull pain of an oncoming headache.

After a long while, John finally mustered up the motivation to get up, get dressed (just in a shirt and pyjama bottoms), and head downstairs, setting a course for his first destination - the kitchen. He decided he would make himself some tea, enjoy that for a few minutes, and then take a shower. He hated to admit it, but he had been a bit neglectful of his hygiene routine during the last week. With everything going on, he just didn't have the energy. However, now that he was once again sharing a flat with Sherlock, he would make sure to put forth a better effort of it because he did not wish to offend his friend with his poor hygiene.

John walked into the kitchen and found that Sherlock was already up, sitting at the kitchen table in his night clothes and blue robe. John couldn't see much of the detective's face, as most of it was hidden behind the microscope that he was peering into. John could only make out his pale eyes, that were tinted blue with the current lighting of the kitchen as it was, which were framed by his messy raven curls. John was always so interested in Sherlock's eyes, the way they changed color with the lighting - like a mood ring does with temperature. He had never met someone with eyes like that, they were truly exceptional. Well, Sherlock, as a whole being, was truly exceptional.

John mentally kicked himself when he realized that he was looking directly at Sherlock, something he had commanded himself **not** to do, as he made his way to the kitchen, and corrected this by quickly averting his eyes away from him. He didn't want to look directly at Sherlock or say anything to him because he knew that there would be an awkwardness in the room (and it was indeed there - just as he had anticipated) and he knew he'd much rather deal with it _after_ his tea. Thankfully, Sherlock was typically unaware of John's presence (and absence) when his eyes were absorbed in the eyepiece of the microscope, so John felt like he had a pretty good chance of getting out of the kitchen without a hitch - even with the mistake that he made when he first entered the kitchen.

As was characteristic of Sherlock, the very thing John was relying on, the studious detective didn't move, he barely even breathed, as John worked on the tea. The thought of making two teas did cross the doctor's mind. Before John had moved in with Liddy, he was in the habit of making tea for both Sherlock and himself, but now he wondered if Sherlock was back in the habit of making tea for himself; therefore, he may already have one. It would only take a simple turn of the head to look and see, but that meant he would have to look in Sherlock's direction again and possibly pull the detective out of his trance in the microscope. No, John couldn't risk that, not again. For now, John just wanted to make his tea and sit in peace in the sitting room.

John was almost out of the kitchen with his tea when Sherlock finally broke the silence, "I thought you had early work, John."

John jerked to a stop and his body tensed up at the sound of Sherlock's voice. _Shit._ He had almost gotten away without exchanging words with Sherlock. Without turning, he replied, "Ah, yes. Well, I lied."

John could hear Sherlock fiddling with the microscope, "Well, John, maybe that's why things didn't work out with Liddy. 'Honesty is the policy', isn't that what they say?"

John let out a single-syllable laugh that was weighed down by bitterness, "Oh, you mean to tell me that you hadn't deduced all of the problems with my failed marriage the second I walked in here last night?" The doctor twisted the top half of his body slightly so that he could look over at Sherlock as he asked the question.

Sherlock's eyes were still fixated on the microscope, "Oh, no, of course I did."

John's curiosity got the better of him (it always did), forcing him to turn around and make his way back into the kitchen, finding a place at the kitchen counter that was directly across from where Sherlock sat, so he could face him, and leaned against it, "So, what were they then, Mr. Consulting Detective?"

The detective pulled away from his microscope, leaning himself against the backrest of his seat, and John finally had a full view of Sherlock's face - the juxtaposition of his dark hair and pale skin was breathtaking. His high-set and heavily defined cheekbones exaggerated the hallowed-out appearance of his cheeks (but not so much that he looked ill) so that it gave a heart-shaped aspect to his perfectly oblong face. Then there were his light pink lips that were so beautifully curved and delicate, unlike anything John had ever seen on any other man before. How could one man be blessed with such amazing features? It was almost sad that Sherlock showed no interest in, well, anyone (Surely he had to be into...someone, right?) because there would be so many in this world that would consider themselves lucky to be entangled with someone as beautiful as him. How completely unfair it was that Sherlock hoarded himself away from the world...

_Why in God's name am I thinking like this?_

Sherlock remained silent for a few seconds, as if contemplating if he should really carry out the explanation of the deductions he made about his friend's marriage. As if he actually had any sense of decorum to stop himself; Sherlock could never resist the urge to flex the only 'muscle' that mattered - his brain.

The detective sucked in some air and went on with it, as John knew he would, "Liddy is quite the jealous type and very possessive. She didn't want you to even look at another woman or else she would believe you were going to cheat on her, as if you had women falling left and right for you. Which I guess isn't totally untrue, as you are a handsome man and have had quite a many relationships before her, so this likely exasperated her jealousy and possessive nature. I mean, you couldn't even be with me for too long of time and I am just a male friend that is married to his work - why would I be a threat to her? Anyways, I digress. So, to make sure she has you forever, she manipulated you - she did this so very well, as evident by the short dating period and basically nonexistent engagement - and you two were wed quite quickly. Now she has you where she wants you. Now she has her attentive, doctor husband that does whatever she wants and gives her whatever she wants. However, no matter what you do for her or provide for her, this does not stop her from seeking out the attention of other men. This is when her jealousy and possessiveness turns into irony because she ends up cheating on you. Multiple times. As it turns out, she only used you for the money and stability you could provide because those were things that other men in her life, that she tends to be more attracted to, cannot give her because they are unaccomplished fuck-boys. She would have kept this going too, most likely for the entirety of your marriage. You only caught her because, whilst she was in the throes of passion, you came home early one day with take away to surprise her," Sherlock lifted his hands into the air slightly and shook them, "surprise! Discovering this was very upsetting for you, but you didn't try to make it work, even though she begged for you to forgive her. You told her it was over that night and have stuck to that decision - as evident by the fact that you have already removed your ring."

John and Sherlock stared at each other as a silence came between them again. John was trying to figure out if his friend was being serious or not. It was, in fact, all true, but John just couldn't let himself believe that Sherlock deduced all of that. Before moving back into the flat last night, John hadn't seen or spoken to anyone of importance since the incident happened. He only communicated to Sherlock and Mrs. Hudson through text and that was only to figure out moving arrangements. He hadn't told them about what happened - the wound was still too new for him to feel comfortable about telling them. He really didn't even want to talk about it now.

John set down his tea cup on the counter, the clink of cup meeting counter broke the silence, "Sherlock, how did you - You couldn't have..."

"I did," Sherlock's serious stare did not falter.

"Seriously, Sherlock... How? Did you, I don't know, bug my house?!" John got his answer when Sherlock's face broke into a one-sided smile that made his eye crinkle. John broke eye contact, shaking his head, "Oh, hell, you did. Of course you did," he looked at Sherlock again and motioned a hand towards him, waving it in a light frustration, "why would you do that? That's invasion of privacy!" John retracted his hand, feeling felt a bit dim for saying that last bit; Sherlock didn't care about privacy, let alone feel guilty for for invading it.

Sherlock got out of his chair and made his way over to where John was standing so he could make some tea for himself; he was completely focused on making his tea as he spoke to John, "It was just audio recording and it wasn't being monitored; it was only put in place so it could be pulled for 'if needed' situations."

John brought up his arms, crossing them on his chest. When he did this, his shoulder gently rubbed against Sherlock's upper arm. The fabric of Sherlock's robe absorbed most of the friction, but this did not stop the prickling sensation, of Sherlock's nerve endings lighting up, from spreading across his arm. The detective stopped what he was doing and looked down at John's arm which was still ghosting against his. John didn't even bother moving, it seemed as though he didn't even take notice of how close they were. He didn't feel that? That pleasant burning of nerves?

"So, me having to move back warranted you to review those bugs?"

Sherlock kept his pale eyes trained on John's arm, "Yes, John," and that was all he said.

John's hard, serious face slowly soften and he eventually let out a small chuckle, "Why am I even surprised?"

Sherlock abruptly turned his attention back to his tea, "Now, I did get most of that on my own, but - yes - the bugs provided by Mycroft revealed that Liddy cheated on you," he paused for a few seconds, trying to form a word he hardly ever used, "I-I'm sorry, John."

John, slightly surprised to hear 'that word' coming from his friend, turned his body so that his side was leaned against the counter, so he could face Sherlock head on. Then, almost as if by some invisible force, John's hand found itself connected with Sherlock's shoulder, "Well, it's really, ya know - I'm the one that should - I, um, shouldn't have...," _God, I am horrible with this shit_ , "Yeah, I'm sorry too," he quickly forced out the last four words so he could be done with it; however, his arm lingered in its place.

Sherlock looked over at John through the corners of his eyes, meeting his friend's gaze. He knew it was his turn to speak, but he let the conversation drift into silence because he had no idea what to say. Well, he knew what he _wanted_ to say; he wanted to update John on the case he was working on, but he remembered how unfavorably that went last night. 

_To push, or not to push, that is the question......._

_Don't push._

Sherlock didn't want to do anything that would push his friend away, not while he... The detective's eyes slowly scanned down from John's eyes to his hand that rested upon Sherlock's shoulder. He could feel his nerves burning with excitement once more and it was... confusing. Why was his body reacting like this? Sure, Sherlock hadn't seen much of his friend during the last three months, but why would that cause _this_?

John noticed the detective looking at his hand and he suddently had the sense to move it. "All good then?" John inquired as he turned his body away from Sherlock, now feeling super awkward, so he could pick up his cup of tea.

Sherlock nodded his head in agreement, took his tea, and went back to his seat at the kitchen table without saying anything else. John stood there for a few seconds before awkwardly departing for the sitting room. 

The rest of the morning was spent in silence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, to those of you that have made it to this point of the story!
> 
> I just thought I should go ahead and put in a little note (a thanks) for reading the story (and giving kudos, if you have).
> 
> I also want to say that I am a fan of the slow burns.... Soooooo, this is definitely going to be a slow burn. So, patience is key. I do hope you are enjoying the story thus far. I know that not a whole lot has happened yet, but they will be on the case soon!
> 
> Thanks!


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